


Complicated Things (With Simple Answers)

by LittleMissGG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Masturbation, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissGG/pseuds/LittleMissGG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds a sex toy and is a little obsessed over it. Sherlock doesn't think it should be so complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complicated Things (With Simple Answers)

**Author's Note:**

> For the duration of the writing of this it was actually called "tada" because I had finally written something.
> 
> You can also read this or just catch up with me on [Tumblr](http://littlemissggwrites.tumblr.com/post/78669878583/fic-complicated-things-with-simple-answers)

John is alone in the flat when he finds it.

He’s clearing through the general detritus of Sherlock’s bedroom to find any errant laundry he can add to the load he’s about to start. He’s used to finding decidedly odd things about the flat - decapitated heads, stray chemical experiments, stolen evidence bags (“ _borrowed, John, borrowed. It’s not as though they even notice anyway,_ ”) along side the corpses of various small woodland creatures. Not to mention the entirely separate collection of odds and ends that find their way in either to be tossed aside once they are no longer useful to the case at hand or instead to end up treasured knick-knacks shoved in awkwardly alongside their already overcrowded flat; the stuffed canary on the landing, the lego eiffel tower above the kitchen sink, the three small ceramic elephants in the bathroom which for reasons better left unknown are referred to as Tom, Dick and Voldemort.

It perhaps shouldn’t then, come as a shock to find the lurid purple dildo when John does. It falls from the pile of things John lifts from the floor in a moment of pure courage. What John is expecting to find beneath the discarded duvet, the arrangement of odd socks and at least three fully unfolded and unwieldy ordinance survey maps he’s not sure. He’s certain it wasn’t this.

It’s not unusually large or anything. In fact, aside from the colour, it’s quite human - the flared head and the few fat plastic veins running down the sides. It’s a little fluffy from the cotton sheets it’s been stuck under and suddenly John is wondering when it was last used and when he last heard Sherlock in his room and— John drops the pile back on the floor atop the offending sex toy, picks up one or two light colours shirts and the grey t-shirt Sherlock prefers for sleeping and exits the room abruptly.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

“You were in my room.” Sherlock doesn’t say hello or explain where he’s been since before dawn this morning. 

“I was looking for laundry since you are apparently incapable of doing any yourself.” John doesn’t look up from his newspaper and doesn’t let himself think about how his cheeks are pink. Sherlock is oddly quiet for a few seconds, wiggling his feet against the carpet while wearing John’s socks, before apparently conceding the point.

“Everybody working at the British Library is an idiot.” He says by way of segue and suddenly all thoughts of dirty laundry and dirty bedrooms and purple sex toys are forgotten in place of sordid tales of murder and mystery in the Asian & African Studies Reading Room of the British Library.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

It plays on John’s mind more than he’d like to admit. In the darkness of his own room not five feet down the hallway he imagines he can hear Sherlock shifting beneath his sheets. He can’t. Of course he can’t. Sherlock often isn’t even beneath the sheets, instead at his desk or pacing at the foot of his bed. John can’t hear anything but his own beating heart and his own whispering desire to know more than is strictly necessary given their entirely platonic relationship.

But still. Sherlock has so far in the entire time John has known him, shown exactly zero interest in sex or sexual practises. It does occur to him more than once that Sherlock may simply have bought the toy in a fit of sudden curiosity and never actually used it for any of the purposes it’s intended. Much like the toasted sandwich maker above the cupboards in the kitchen.

It could have been for a case. For research. It could simply have been the correct consistency for some disturbing experiment. It could have been, when it comes to Sherlock, for pretty much anything. And yet, for some reason, all John can imagine is Sherlock alone, in bed, naked and glorious, his legs spread wide and vulnerable as he slides the flared head inside himself; the little noise he would make as he’s forced open, the look on his face as it glides in deeper, the way his long toes would curl into the sheets.

John wanks furiously almost every night, biting the pillow so as not to make a sound, eyes scrunched shut so tight he gets a headache. Every morning he holds his breath when Sherlock walks in, waiting for a raging accusation, but it never comes. He’s entirely unsure why that leaves him with the sick, heavy feel of disappointment.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Things get more complicated when a case involves John following Sherlock into a bathhouse in Shoreditch. While Sherlock is carefully and calmly studying the tile work around the walls John is very carefully not studying the lithe young men that are watching them both with open admiration.

They’re on their way out when an older man, all broad shoulders and salt and pepper chest hair, stops them by way of standing in their way with nothing but a towel thrown over his shoulder. John raises an eyebrow at the man when he clearly gives John the once over and apparently likes what he sees.

“I’ve seen you two in the paper.”

“Yes?” Sherlock is typing on his phone, distracted and presumedly waiting for John to clear the way so he can carry on sweeping about the place like usual.

“There’s one thing I’ve been wondering. Keeps me up at night, you might say.” John definitely doesn’t like the look on the guys face, all suggestion and warm confidence. He sort of wants to barge passed but that would seem— unnecessary.

“We’re terribly busy and I should have thought the answer to your question is glaringly obvious. Now. If you wouldn’t mind we have a murderer to bring to justice. Two if I’m not mistaken.” Sherlock shoves passed the man and doesn’t look back, so John follows suit and waits until they’re both back in the cool air outside before opening his mouth.

He doesn’t get very far.

“He wanted to know which of us tops, presuming we were in a sexual relationship. He enjoys making other tops feel uncomfortable in front of ‘their’ bottoms as a form of sexual dominance. Typical behaviour really. Middle child, average intellectual performance against an out performing younger sibling. Surprisingly late sexual bloomer. Small dog. No. Cat.” Sherlock tips his head to one side, staring at whatever scene is playing in his head. “Inconclusive. Doesn’t matter. Onward John, we’ve nearly cracked it!”

Sherlock is already fifty feet down the street before John has managed to get his brain clicked back on again. He carefully avoids any further comment on the entire incident until they’re in the taxi home, both murderers safely behind bars.

Sherlock is being quiet, finally, staring out at the wet and rainy city beyond the window. John lets the calm and the quiet wash over him - just the low rumble of the engine and the occasional squeak of the window wipers breaking the lull between them.

“What’s so obvious?”

Sherlock rolls his head toward John, regarding him over the seat. For a moment John fears he’ll have to explain himself and the idea is excruciating but then Sherlock smiles, slowly, letting his eyes fall closed.

“You are.” Sherlock replies, tipping his head right back and looking for all the world as though he were sleeping.

“What does that mean?” John asks a little too quickly. “Sherlock?” But Sherlock is still feigning sleep - that or he’s passed out finally after 48 hours of nothing but caffeine and adrenaline - but there’s that smug smile on his lips. “Prick.” John hisses and Sherlock just grins wider.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

John does not wake up the following morning hard and sweating into his sheets, face down and imagining Sherlock’s weight above him, his broad palms pressed heavy against John’s shoulders while he kicks John’s legs wide open and shows him exactly who’s on top.

So he doesn’t sneak to the shower after coming so hard he bruises his wrist when he bites down to muffle the sound. He doesn’t stand beneath the spray of lukewarm water cursing himself and his over active imagination and he doesn’t manage the second wank of the morning picturing Sherlock naked and wet and flushed down on his knees in the shower with him.

He hasn’t managed twice in one morning since he was twenty-six and he doesn’t feel proud of that either.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Life returns to relatively normal for a few weeks. Relative because, well, this is life with Sherlock and there will always be a certain amount of running and jumping and shooting at walls and corpses of woodland animals in the sink.

Things have been so normal in fact, that John has managed to break the habit of desperate masturbation every morning and move on to a perfectly acceptable Sunday morning and a few late nights during the week schedule that leaves him feeling far less devious but just as frustrated. He does manage to carry out basic tasks without his mind wandering. He does a few shifts at the clinic. He goes to Sainsbury’s and remembers milk, sugar and triple layer rubber gloves to replace the three pairs Sherlock has destroyed (and not once done the washing up with). His every waking moment is not spent thinking about ‘Sherlock and the purple dildo’. 

He is starting to consider it all as an over reaction. Clearly a misunderstanding. Clearly just a prop for some case or another, some experiment, some form of research and then - like everything else Sherlock no longer finds immediately useful - cast aside and forgotten about beneath ordinance survey maps and discarded socks.

John returns to the flat after another day at the clinic, shoulders a little stiff and neck aching from being bent over the desk all day. 221b is quiet which at first simply suggests Sherlock is out but once John walks through the kitchen and flicks on the kettle he spots Sherlock’s phone by the sink and thinks again.

He can’t hear much with the bubbling of the kettle so he switches it back off and turns his head, listening for tell-tale signs of the location and current mood of London’s most trying flat-mate.

If this were some cheesy rom-com he’d hear the noise that he hears, fear the worst, and run off down the hallway busting open the bedroom door and there’d be an embarrassing moment. As it turns out this is not a rom-com. This is some horrible pseudo-horror slash porn fiasco. He knows what he can hear as soon as he hears it. Knows that realistically he has two, maybe three viable options. First - he could shout out. Call out to let Sherlock know he’s home, pretend he hasn’t heard Sherlock moaning in his bedroom which is _right there_ and just overlook the way Sherlock will emerge from his room frustrated and grumpy. Secondly? He could go back out again. Just… Walk around. Buy more milk. Or bread. Or just go somewhere and get really drunk. He could just make himself be anywhere but here.

Third… Third… Sherlock is moaning louder now. His voice breaking around low moans and sudden, desperate grunts. John can’t move his feet. They’re riveted to the floor, the soles of his shoes turned to iron. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, fingers clutching at the kitchen counter, breath coming in stuttering gasps.

Outside. He needs to be outside. He focusses on one foot in front of the other, gently, carefully and suddenly instead of heading for the stairs he’s moving toward the noises. Entirely without his brain being involved in the decision making process he’s edging closer to Sherlock’s bedroom door.

Sherlock makes this little broken sound, halfway between a sob and groan; it’s so much better than John could ever have imagined and he’s hard within seconds - so fast he feels light headed and he grips the edge of the doorframe without thinking.

The noises inside don’t stop, Sherlock is whining now, higher than John would have imagined. There’s a quiet, rhythmic sound forced out of him again and again and John knows, he _knows_ like he hasn’t known anything in a long time that Sherlock is fucking himself on that damn toy and it’s like torture being so close and not being able to—

He fumbles his fly open and shoves his hand into his pants. He chews his lip and holds his breath, desperate to hear everything he can through the door. Sherlock must know he’s there by now - he must - but he isn’t stopping, he’s crying out, not quite words but something better, something raw and honest in a way John could never have wished for in his wildest, most perverted fantasising.

His hand is flying over his cock, the other is pressed palm flat against the door now, fingertips going white as he closes his eyes. On the other side of the door Sherlock is finally making words, begging and crying out and suddenly he’s calling John’s name.

John comes all over his hand, the inside of his pants ruined, he can’t breathe. He freezes, suddenly terrified and unable to move again. He can’t hear anything and then, suddenly, footsteps from the other side of the door. Sherlock is moving toward him. He wants to stumble away, move, at least remove his hand from his fucking pants but he can’t do anything and the footsteps are coming closer and Sherlock is about to catch him literally in the act and— The interconnecting door to the bathroom slams shut. John nearly collapses with relief.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

“You’re home.” Sherlock emerges from his bedroom in his pyjamas and dressing gown almost 10 minutes later. John is sat with a cup of tea, laptop on his lap, biscuit in hand. He looks nothing like a deviant sex fiend.

“Another deduction from the famous Mr Holmes. There’s tea in the pot.” John offers Sherlock a biscuit from the plate by his elbow as Sherlock walks passed. Sherlock takes two, puts one down on the arm of the chair and begins picking at the first. “It’s a biscuit Sherlock, not a crime scene. Eat it.” John rolls his eyes affectionately and Sherlock pokes his tongue out and continues to pick away at the biscuit methodically.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, long enough for Sherlock to completely dissect his biscuit and get chocolate all over his fingers. Long enough for John to fill out several of his patient forms he’d thrown himself into after washing his hands in the sink and tucking his cock back into his trousers.

“Are we going to talk about the sex toy and the voyeurism or would that be not good?” Sherlock says it all perfectly calmly and it’s only the way his still-chocolate covered fingers tap against one another that gives away his nervousness.

John’s brain switches off for twenty three seconds. At twenty-four, when it comes back on again, he realises his mouth is open and so he shuts it.

“I invaded your privacy.” John begins, breathing slowly and deliberately. “So it’s up to you if you want to bring it up or not.” He feels like that’s a suitable excuse for not actually saying anything and then closes his laptop and puts it to one side.

They stare at one another across the living room for what feels like half a lifetime to John before Sherlock finally huffs a breath and licks the chocolate from his fingers distractedly.

“I find it ridiculously frustrating that you would continue to avoid talking about something that has clearly been distracting you now for weeks.” He talks around his fingers, sucking the tips of them clean and John’s mouth is incredibly dry and his world is possibly imploding and he wasn’t prepared for any of this on a Tuesday afternoon.

“And even after I gave you ample opportunity to act on your feelings instead of talking about them which is something I know you don’t actually enjoy, you still refuse to _do_ anything.”

John’s mouth is open again. He knows it is. He shuts it and tries to untangle all of those words and fit them back together in an order that makes sense to him.

“You—? So I— And you—?” Sherlock clearly has no time for any of it and so lifts himself out of his armchair, lets his silk dressing gown drift off his shoulders like some regal mythical creature and then settles himself very firmly in John’s lap.

He presses the last chocolate stained finger to John’s lips and smiles. It’s one of the real ones, the secret, soft around the edges ones that only John ever gets to see. John lets his mouth fall open again only this time it’s so that he can suck the tip of Sherlock’s finger between his lips. Sherlock bites the inside of his lip, just a little, as he watches John’s mouth and it’s such a tiny gesture of vulnerability that John groans.

He surges forward and kisses Sherlock hard, hard enough that their teeth clack and they both have to readjust, Sherlock’s long fingers clutching at John’s shoulders as his knees dig deeper into the chair either side of John’s hips. John kisses him with all the fervent desire he’s been doing such a shitty job of keeping under wraps and when he slips his tongue passed Sherlock’s lips he swallows down the subsequent gasp. Sherlock is a wriggling mass of messy curls and hot skin and awkward jutting bones, desperately folded into the chair alongside John which should be surprising but really, Sherlock has always had the unnerving ability to channel his inner contortionist. 

John tries to pump his hips up but finds himself pinned in place by Sherlock’s razor sharp hips and strong, warm thighs but that’s no good, he wants more, more friction and more skin and more _Sherlock_.

He grabs at Sherlock’s skinny arse and holds him tight as he staggers out of the chair, ignoring Sherlock’s grunt of protest and the angry sharp pain in his shoulder as he shoves Sherlock up against the doorframe on the way to the kitchen and kisses him again like he can’t stop himself, like he can’t resist.

It’s a feat of physics and engineering that they make it to Sherlock’s room at the end of the hall without major incident or injury. John dumps Sherlock on the bed and hauls his jumper over his head, then his shirt, and then he flicks open his flies all before Sherlock has scooted himself to the edge of the bed and is trying to help.

Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips to John’s newly revealed soft, slightly rounded belly, then up to his sternum and then turns his head and presses his ear to John’s rapidly beating heart. John stops, slows down for a second to look down at the top of Sherlock’s head pressed close to his chest. It strikes John as suddenly as any blunt force trauma to the back of the head; all this time Sherlock waiting for him to make the move - _Sherlock_ \- who barely has the patience to wait for the kettle to boil most days - waiting to see if John wanted him, wanted him enough to do something about it.

John threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, tugging him back just enough so that he can look into Sherlock’s upturned face. John lets his thumb brush the sharp edge of Sherlock’s cheekbone as he struggles to find the words to express himself. Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter, his face calm as he makes eye contact and all of a sudden John doesn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to make any promises to me.” Sherlock nuzzles his face into John’s hand and wraps his wide hands around the soft jut of John’s hipbones. John wants to say _of course I do, I could promise you the world, you are beautiful and perfect and I don’t expect to keep you but god I can promise to love you_ but Sherlock looks at him like he’s the most wonderful thing in the world and it’s too much for John to try and speak right now.

Instead John kneels onto the bed with one knee so he can be closer to Sherlock, closer to kiss him and hold him, to just finally realise that this isn’t just the culmination of weeks and weeks of frustration but months and years of a slow build of something far _more_.

“You’re sure about this? I’ve been told I can be quite possessive.” John jokes, kissing Sherlock’s neck, pressing his teeth against the thin, sensitive skin there.

“When have I ever been less than sure about anything?” Sherlock huffs, tipping his head further to one side despite his apparent frustration, to allow John more room.

“I really hope you’re not going to be quite so insolent once I’ve got my cock in you.” John smirks against Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock goes quite pink himself, fingers digging suddenly into John’s sides as he bites his lip again. It drives John slightly mad.

John pushes Sherlock back down on the bed, kneeling over him as he just takes time to run his hands, palms wide and warm down Sherlock’s arms, over his chest and down and then catching in the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama’s and tugging them down. Down on one side and then the other, Sherlock wiggling and lifting up to let John push them all the way down and then he’s laying there, naked from where his t-shirt is pushed half-way up his chest all the way down. John’s hands are greedy, rubbing and stroking and pinching at acres of milk white skin, thin and almost blue over Sherlock’s hips and the soft, secret skin on the inside of his thighs. Sherlock gasps at the bold fingers pressing to skin that John claims as his own, stretching his legs out while his fingers alternate between tugging at John’s hair and pushing at his shoulders.

John kisses at Sherlock’s ankle, wraps his fingers around the bones and skin and ligaments and feels when Sherlock flexes his leg. It’s a little surreal to have Sherlock laid out before him like this, a little like a medical experiment - he thinks Sherlock would appreciate that imagery - pinned and stretched and on display. John licks the soft dip at Sherlock’s knee, presses his teeth to Sherlock’s thigh and watches the way the skin jumps and breaks out in goosebumps.

“I’m going to suck your cock now.”

Sherlock groans, a real broken noise, ripped out of him before he could censor or stop it and John grins as he sucks on the tip on Sherlock’s cock where it’s red and wet and pressed against his belly. John hasn’t done this in a while but it’s oddly familiar - John has always loved going down on his partners male or female, loved the sense of power and pleasure - and the way Sherlock is gasping his name is no disappointment.

He lets his fingers skim over sensitive skin a little longer and then lower, pushing up between Sherlock’s legs—

“Fucking _hell_ Sherlock.” John pulls off with a wet sound, freehand pressed to Sherlock’s tummy. Sherlock is still slick and wet from— Before. “One day you’re going to lay here and fuck yourself on that thing while I watch.”

“I—I don’t entirely object to that idea.” Sherlock stammers, rising up on his elbows to look down at John between his thighs.

“Good.” John laughs, pressing open mouthed kisses around Sherlock’s cock. He teases between Sherlock’s legs, pressing his fingertips against the stretched, wet hole but not quite giving him what he wants.  Sherlock takes it as expected and throws a little blue bottle of lube at the side of his head. John laughs again, kneeling up between Sherlock’s legs and kissing him, just because he can, he’s allowed to now. He grabs at one of Sherlock’s legs, pushing it out of the way until Sherlock is spread wide, and then flicks open the lube.

“I’m going to make you make the most outrageous noises.” John murmurs against Sherlock’s jaw. He pours the lube into one hand, spreading it sloppy over Sherlock’s balls and down lower, pushing one finger up inside him in one long thrust. Sherlock’s legs fall further open, one hand catching John’s elbow and holding on, like he needs a point of contact.

“You’ve yet to disappoint me in anything else you’ve promised.” Sherlock’s voice is trembling and breathy, his eyes sliding shut as he gasps uneven breaths.

John chuckles against Sherlock’s wildly bobbing Adam’s apple. He’s careful not to give Sherlock too much too soon, avoiding any direct stimulation of his prostate and instead stretching him, pressing in and out with one and then two fingers. Sherlock wriggles and writhes beneath John beautifully, more exquisite even than John’s fantasies.

“I—I think- John!” Sherlock is obviously struggling between righteous indignation and a full-body shudder, grabbing at John’s wrist between his legs and stumbling over his words.

“Hmmm?” John prompts, grabbing the lube from the sheets and pouring more out onto his palm.

“Don’t tease. It’s entirely unnecessary.” Sherlock whines, spreading his legs wider and hauling his t-shirt off over his head so he is finally, gloriously, naked. John laughs at that and drops the bottle, smearing the lube over his cock and taking a minute to get himself fully hard.

“Unnecessary but fun. Condoms?” 

“Under the— The—“ Sherlock waves at the bedside cabinet, rolling away from John to reach under the pile of newspaper clippings where he pulls free four or five strips of condoms all in various colours and sizes.

“Strawberry flavour? Ribbed? Glow in the dark?! Sherlock do I even want to know?” John picks a ribbed condom and Sherlock hurls the others off the edge of the bed.

“Experiment. Comparison and effectiveness.” John rolls his eyes and rips the top off the packet. “I’m quite eager to try the same tests with a live subject.”

“Quite eager, huh?” John smiles and presses his palm open over Sherlock’s sternum until he lays back, open and naked and looking quite, quite eager. John holds the base of his cock steady, pressing up against where Sherlock is wet and open and ready - there’s a minute of tension, Sherlock’s breathless anticipation is palpable and John bathes in it before he presses forward and fills Sherlock up in one long push.

Sherlock bites his lip again, arm\s wrapped around John’s shoulders and his nails jab in hard enough to make John wince as he pulls back and shoves forward again, fucking Sherlock up the bed, the sheets bunching beneath him. John grabs at Sherlock’s thighs and hauls him back down the bed, down onto his cock hard enough that Sherlock yells out.

“That’s it. Come on Sherlock, don’t you try and keep quiet.” Sherlock tries to simultaneously nod and shake his head and John chuckles, fucking into him again and bracing himself on both arms as he leans in to kiss Sherlock is a messy meeting of lips.

John looses himself in the tight press of their bodies, the syrup-slow push and pull of Sherlock beneath him and the little noises Sherlock makes, gasping and moaning and pushing back against John hungry and desperate.

John reaches between them and wraps his calloused palm around Sherlock’s prick, stroking him slowly and watching the reaction he gets. Sherlock obviously bites back a commentary or a criticism - John isn’t sure which it was going to be - and instead decided to teach via demonstration and wraps his hand over John’s. He speeds their joint hands up, rougher with a twist at the head. John learns quick and soon Sherlock is sobbing his name, grinding down onto John’s dick.

“John— I—“ Sherlock stutters into nonsense groans, lips bitten red raw.

“Come on, come one love, I wanna see it.” John kisses Sherlock’s jaw, then up his cheek, messy wet presses of his lips as Sherlock whines high. Suddenly he grabs at the back of John’s head, squeezing his eyes shut tight and hard and yells as he comes, coating John’s hand and his own stomach. Still trembling he reaches between them to smear his long, thin fingers through the mess and then press his fingers to John’s lips.

John groans and opens up for Sherlock’s fingers, sucking them clean as he tries to hold on just a little longer. It’s a futile challenge, with Sherlock warm and pliant beneath him, relaxed and post-coital John has no chance. His hips loose rhythm and he comes with his mouth pressed open against Sherlock’s shoulder.

John has barely pulled off the condom before Sherlock is spread all over him like an octopus made of cellotape. They lay together, naked and sweaty in the late afternoon hush, the dull light of the day highlighting the landscape of rumpled sheets and discarded clothes while John let his fingertips brush up and down the fine hairs on Sherlock’s arm.

“So, experiments in comparison and effectiveness. That’s what you’ve been up to?” John finally askes, skin cooling enough that he’s trying to decide if it’s worth getting up and dressing or whether he should just pull up the sheets and nap.

“Uhuh.” Sherlock sounds smug and sleepy which, irritatingly enough, suits him. “Don’t worry John, you matched up very well.”

“Matched up?!” John attempts outrage but finds he barely has enough energy to raise his eyebrows.

“I imagine further testing will be required to establish the extent of your— effectiveness.” Sherlock hides his face away and John knows there’s a smile there all of his own. He finds it very hard to be offended at all.


End file.
